


Rapid Onset

by occasionalspiderfiction (SemiRetiredAuthor), sickficlurker (SemiRetiredAuthor)



Series: Sickdays 5.0 [6]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28793526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemiRetiredAuthor/pseuds/occasionalspiderfiction, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemiRetiredAuthor/pseuds/sickficlurker
Summary: Missions were always fun until someone got hurt, and unfortunately--or fortunately, if you asked him directly--Peter was usually the one to take on that role.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Sickdays 5.0 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1104078
Kudos: 28





	Rapid Onset

Missions were always fun until someone got hurt, and unfortunately—or fortunately, if you asked him directly—Peter was usually the one to take on that role.

At least it made more sense this time. It was a stealth mission with Hawkeye—“Jesus, just call me Clint already!”—and Black Widow, only it hadn’t gone as expected. They were sent to observe and report; Mr. Stark had repeated the phrase often enough that Peter was sure he’d have it stuck in his mind until the day he died.

They observed. They reported. They observed some more. Something was off, or at least the others seemed to think so.

“Huh. That’s not right,” Mr. Stark’s voice crackled slightly in his suit’s audio system. “Follow that one, and while you’re at it, let the kid get in some long-distance practice.”

Two of them were heading in opposite directions, but Hawkeye and Black Widow wordlessly moved as one toward the nearest soldier without explanation. Peter shrugged as much as his position hanging from the ceiling would allow and followed from above, careful to keep everyone in sight while sticking to the shadows as much as possible.

“He’s all yours, Peter,” Natasha ordered when their target was thoroughly separated from his coworkers. “Incapacitate him, but nothing permanent… Not that I need to tell _you_.”

It was sort of a running joke between the portion of the team that was getting along well enough to work together: Peter was soft. He might have been more embarrassed about the teasing if it wasn’t over something he took pride in. Sure, Peter couldn’t bring himself to really hurt someone, but he could do _this_.

One quick tap of his webshooter sent the man sprawling against the wall with a muffled cry of surprise, and a second one trapped him more securely with no wiggle room. They were pretty far from the last agent they’d seen, but one final hit covered his mouth to be safe.

“Good work,” Clint offered, always the quickest to jump to praise when it came to Peter. He still had no idea why, but the man went all weirdly parental on him as soon as he’d heard Peter’s age. It wasn’t like he was a _kid_ kid, but whatever. He couldn’t complain and mean it. It was nice to get positive feedback every once in a while.

Natasha froze midway to the agent, previously intent on preparing him for transport to the compound.

“Someone’s here,” she hissed.

Peter felt the blare of his spider sense confirming it, but nothing told him how to react to protect himself, only _danger danger danger_. He crouched, aimed his webshooter, and leapt for the ceiling, but not in time.

Pain lanced through his side, and he knew this pain too well, knew he’d managed to swing another fantastic case of Parker luck and get himself shot.

There was a flurry of action, but he couldn’t quite keep up with it. He was there—the pain didn’t let him forget that—but it didn’t feel like he was really _there_. And it only got worse.

He’d dealt with gunshots before, he mused amidst the sounds of near-silent arrows and whatever super cool kickass spy skills Natasha was using, but not like this. This was more than before, not just a graze that would heal at home after a few hours of dedicated sleep and an extra high-calorie meal or two.

A tentatively hovering hand confirmed his suspicions. Over the thudding rush of blood in his ears that came with the panic, he still registered that this wasn’t a small scratch. No, there was a definite point of entry, impossibly small for the amount of blood sluggishly pouring out and too painful to touch for more than the single second his uncoordinated hand accidentally brushed over it.

Time went on, or he thought so, anyway. He couldn’t take it, didn’t understand how he’d handled it so long already. The pain never let up, radiating from his torso with a vengeance, seemingly determined not to let him forget for a second that there was a gaping—“It’s not _that_ big,” he reminded himself through the panic—gunshot wound on him.

Mr. Stark was suddenly right there, claiming in rapid-fire mutters that it would get better soon, but it _wasn’t_. It _wouldn’t_. How could he go on having felt like this?

Logic told him he’d passed out after that, an educated guess based largely on the drastic change in scenery during what felt like one long blink of his eyes. Instead of a large, dim bunker, he found himself in the unfortunately familiar brightly-lit medbay, partially caged in by a privacy curtain to his side.

He was semi-alone with no one in sight, but a hushed conversation drifted to him from somewhere nearby, definitely in the same room. The words didn’t sink in through the unnatural blanket of drowsiness, but he didn’t mind. It didn’t register as pressing or even relevant to him, so…

What was harder to ignore were the last dredges of his earlier panic. Maybe it hadn’t been that long in reality, but it seemed like it should be over, like it had been long enough for him to convince his mind that he was safe. Something still made him cling to the completely unspecific fear, a nervous sweat breaking out along the back of his neck and along his back.

It was kind of gross and he knew he was safe thanks to the lack of the spider sense, so he settled back into sleep to escape the nerves and the clamminess.

He woke up so _thirsty_ he would do anything for a glass of water. His eyes roamed until they found exactly what he was hoping for.

It was perched on the edge of the bedside table, uncomfortably positioned over the edge, and he had no idea how he hadn’t noticed it earlier. He reached out a sluggish and slightly uncoordinated hand, accidentally knocking into the glass.

Only he felt nothing. He didn’t know if his hand-eye coordination was _that_ bad right now or if someone was playing a joke with him using FRIDAY’s holograms again or _what_ , but he wanted that water, and he wanted it now.

He tried again with the same results, the glass of water stubbornly sitting there glistening with the ice cold moisture dripping slowly down the outside while he grunted in frustration.

The third failed attempt made him call it quits. It was too annoying to be worth quenching the thirst. If he had to lay here slowly dehydrating for the rest of his life, then screw it. He gladly would before trusting the traitor glass again.

Slipping back into sleep sounded nice in theory, but the reality was that he was too uncomfortable for it. The room wasn’t _boiling_ but just a couple steps north of too warm, he felt unreasonably nervous, and he could feel a headache coming on. Or he hoped it was a headache, anyway. He was _not_ up to a surprise migraine on top of an unplanned bullet wound. Whether it all was from a forgotten hit he’d taken or the pain meds was beyond him.

He supposed it didn’t matter, whatever the cause. It was burning through his already limited time with the team and if he had to guess, it was killing Aunt May. He hadn’t seen her yet, but Mr. Stark always gave her a head’s up on this kind of thing.

He was up. He was bored. He was sort of lonely. What was there better to do than find out what those voices were talking about?

That was all the suggestion he needed.

No more than a minute later, trembling, sweating, and doubled over with both hands on the bed to keep himself semi-standing, he mused that it might not have been the best idea. Mr. Stark agreed.

“Whoa, hey! You’re on bedrest, kid, and that’s until the doc says you’re not, not just whenever you decide.”

And that was the end of that.

The miniscule trip back into bed wasn’t as difficult as his venture out of it, but it was no less painful, more than the pain meds could obscure on their own.

He still didn’t know what the conversation had been about—though the still-pinched lines in Mr. Stark’s face gave him a vague idea—but it wasn’t a priority. Sleep came more easily with company, one hand ruffling through his hair before slowing down to a comfortable pace.


End file.
